Pryvitannie, Belarus
by TFSuperfan
Summary: A sequel to "Privyet, Russia!" When Anechka Volkov escaped from her burning town two years ago, she believed herself to be the only one who survived. Not so...  Human and country names used in this story.


There was a massive field of sunflowers, some small animals milling about between the fuzzy stalks, and... who was that? A man stood in the distance using a large rusty pipe like a cane, wearing a long brown coat and a lightly colored scarf stood with his back facing the only other person in the flower field; his hair was an unnaturally light blonde, almost silver. Curious, the girl started forward, feeling the sunflowers brush her legs as she walked. "Hello?" she called to him. "Who are you?" She reached him and rotating the person to face her. "My name is Ane**— **AAAAAHH!" His face was blank but for two eyes, deeply purple and swirling with grief and fury. There was... fire, a real fire, reflected in them! Anechka smelled smoke, the acrid odor burning her nose. All at once, the man faded into thin air leaving only his pipe on the ground, the animals fled and the field went up in flames and there was orange and red all around. It was hot, too hot, too... real!

She jolted forward and saw that it was indeed real. Her home was on fire; Anechka could see the flames of some other houses through her first floor window as well, but she scarcely noticed. All she could think of were her little brother and sister. Anechka catapulted off of her bed, grabbing her mother's balalaika and her awkwardly stitched homemade messenger bag, stuffing the picture from her nightstand and dumping the bread loaf she'd snacked on the night before in with it.

"Irena! Dmitry!" she wailed. There were flames everywhere, smoke burned her eyes and filled her throat, making her cough as she sprinted across the small house she shared with the eight-year-old girl and her brother of eleven years. In front of the open doorway leading to her room (which really belonged to her late parents) a large rafter had fallen and sent sparks flying onto the little handmade furniture they had. When Anechka called again, her voice was a bit hoarse. "Dmitry, Irena!" She reached the children's room shortly and saw that it was burning fiercely, the quilts of the two simple iron cots on either side of the tiny space already on fire. However, a small figure lay on the floor, unmoving.

No tears welled up in Anechka's eyes; she couldn't cry. But the terror ripping through her chest was exponentially worse than any amount of tears could ever express. "IRENA!" she screamed. "IRENA, NO!" She moved forward to take her little sister by the arm and drag her out, but there was a cracking sound that Anechka could hear over the roar and pop of the flames: the ceiling was starting to fall apart. A step back saved the teen from being crushed and burned to death by a wooden beam that fell where she had stood only moments ago, but the object now squatted between the sisters. A split-second decision: save Irena, find Dmitry and try to escape, or...

Anechka turned away, the smoke clouding her vision more than ever, her chest heaving with dry sobs and coughs. She had to let go. "I love you both," she whispered while she made her way clumsily to the front door. Her feet alternated between stepping on hot and cold spots of stone, and her bag and instrument hindered her progress. Several times, sparks landed on her arm or legs and she felt the burning sensation before rubbing a spit-soaked hand over it. Her saliva quickly ran dry.

At last, Anechka made it to the door. She kicked it open—it was already on fire—and fell onto the snowy ground outside. The white blanket had iced over in the night, but it was melting all over as Anechka's entire town burned to the ground. Nobody roamed the streets calling out for loved ones or friends or neighbors, the entire night's quiet was disrupted by the crackle and sizzle of burning homes.

There was nowhere to go.

To escape the sight, Anechka crawled feebly to the back of the burning mass that was her home, crying out softly with dry eyes and her face in her hands. It wasn't fair. The last five years she'd spent taking care of them and now...now... Something kept her awake, some kind of internal sense telling her the ordeal wasn't over yet. It wasn't.

A brusque voice shouted something in Russian, then laughed at the response from another voice. The voices of the men were unfamiliar, and Anechka cautiously peered out from her hiding spot around the side of the flaming house. Two tough-looking men dressed all in black strutted down the streets, speaking in a foreign tongue and sneering at the houses. Anechka could pick out a little bit of what they were saying, though she mostly spoke English.

"Ha! Listen to them scream!"

"That isn't people, it's the fire, idiot. A waste..."

"Huh?"

"We can't get nothing from these houses! Everything... gone!"

"We'll do better next time."

They drew ever nearer, but Anechka didn't move. She was entranced and bewildered by them. So these were the men who had torn her life into millions of pieces, _they_ had coldly murdered Dmitry and Irena. But to confront them would be hopeless; Anechka couldn't hope to overpower them. It was the man on the left who first took notice of her.

"We may- Hey, Daniil..." said he, shaking his friend's shoulder, "who is that?"

"I don't see anyone. Benedikt, I think you're seeing those 'ghosts' again," said Daniil sarcastically with a laugh.

"No, it isn't a ghost, look. Right there, behind that house. Staring at us."

Daniil bent forward a bit and squinted, searching. He opened his mouth, probably to object again, but his eyes widened as he swore in Russian. "Sergei!" he shouted, looking over his shoulder. "One lived!"

Without waiting to meet Sergei, Anechka scrambled to her feet and took off, followed by Daniil and Benedikt, soon joined by Sergei. She ran and ran, she didn't stop running, if she did they would kill her like they had Dmitry and Irena! The snow was coming down hard, getting into her eyes and limiting her visibility greatly, maybe only a yard or so. But she could see behind her at the three Russians gaining on her slowly. They shouted threats and insults in Russian, but she didn't stop.

She did when she ran into the man from her dream.

)*(*)*(

"Watch where you're—" I stopped short, my cry ending with a dry croak. The air was warm, I held nothing, nobody pursued me. No, I... I knew where I was, and the thought of it made a smile creep onto my face; nonetheless, a saline tear trickled down my cheek and into the crease of my mouth; I sniffled pathetically as my nose began to run.

They were both gone. Forever.

One would think that I would've moved on from them after two whole years had passed by, but this was entirely untrue. Though there had been much change since then, I had in no way forgotten about Dmitry and Irena. Even despite the fact that the morning after I had escaped, when I had found myself safe and sound in Ivan's mansion... I had privately rejoiced my new-found freedom. They were dead and gone, I was free to live my life as I saw fit. Life had seemed so wonderful at first, but the longer I remained in this house, the larger their presence in my thoughts.

My real family.

In truth, I had long considered Ivan and the Baltics my family, but Dmitry and Irena... They were irreplaceable, two in billions. My own flesh and blood. How odd... It hadn't even seen like two years, I'd been so happy here... Before I knew it, I clutched the picture from my nightstand in trembling hands, the same one that I had stuffed into the messenger bag hanging on the headboard of this bed two years ago today. Or, at least, as close to two years as I could count; I have only Ivan's word to go on.

"I'll always remember the day that my little sunflower arrived, Anechka!" he had chirped when I asked him.

The picture was an old Polaroid, faded and in a different frame than the one I had brought here; that frame had fallen and broken during one of Ivan's "episodes" a few months ago. With a feeble sniff, I drew the back of one hand across my eyes and swept the tears away, then switched on the lamp at my side with the other.

There were five people in the picture, all grinning and laughing together. A little girl, nearly three, sat upon her father's shoulders, waving at the camera with one hand and keeping her balance with the other. Her brother held hands with their mother and the eldest sister, the boy's mouth half-open in a giggle that exposed a missing front tooth.

My eyes flicked back and forth at every face, studying every crease and wrinkle in their face and clothing. Only seven years ago... Seven didn't seem so very long ago. Nonetheless, my world had crashed down soon after the picture had been taken... Only to be built back up only a few years later. Still, nearly everyone in the photo was dead; this flimsy piece of paper was the only mem—

_Riiiiing__! __Riiiiiing__!_

With a start, I turned off the shiny metal alarm clock that sat next to my lamp as quickly as I could so as not to wake anybody.

"6:30," I murmured. Time to get up.

)*(*)*(*(

While I was on my way to water the sunflowers in the greenhouse before cooking breakfast, a movement inside caught my eye: a familiar figure strolling about with a watering can. A figure that seemed to make me smile without even thinking.

"Dobroe utro, Ivan," I said, backing into the greenhouse door; my hands were full, trying to hold onto the spare watering can. When I spun myself around, he held me in a big bear hug, making some water slosh out of the can and onto our feet. Pressed up against him, I breathed in the familiar scent of earth and vodka. The grin on my face didn't slip, and I looked up to see it mirrored on his own.

"Dobroe utro," he sang. "I trust you slept well?" He released me and I refrained from telling him not to.

"Ah... You could say that," I replied slowly. He must've noticed the concerned look on my face.

"What's wrong, мой маленький подсолнечник?" he asked with undisguised worry. "Did somebody disturb you?"

"Uh... Well, I don't... really think... you could help, Ivan," I said gently, choosing my words carefully. Apparently not carefully enough; an all-too-familiar aura of light lavender floated around him, though it was nearly invisible and I knew I could turn the situation around. "O-of course, I mean, you may be able to! You see, I was a bit troubled by, er, by the bed. The springs creak when I move, and it's disturbing my sleep." The aura disappeared and his smile returned. 'Close call,' I thought with an inward sigh of relief.

"I could definitely help with that!" he laughed. "No problem at all. I'll just get you an entirely new bed!" He put his hands on his hips, puffing out his chest and smiling even wider as if his idea was the best in the world.

"Uh, yeah..." I stammered, trying to sound enthusiastic. "That's a fantastic idea." I drooped a little and went around him to the sunflowers in the back of the greenhouse. 'I actually like my bed...' While the sunflowers received a miniature rain shower, I remained silent until Ivan spoke up again.

"Anechka, I'm sure that you know exactly what day it is, да?" I could hear the glee in his voice.

"Most definitely! The second—"

"The second anniversary of your arrival!" I didn't object; he loved having me in his home, and I loved being around him. After all, I knew what he was like when I was gone. I remembered what it had been like when I'd returned after an 8-month... absence.

_The house had reeked of vodka, and broken furniture was strewn everywhere. I even remembered a few burn marks on the grimy kitchen floor, which used to be a glistening white. The Baltics were nowhere to be found, though I later discovered them hiding out in one of the spare bedrooms, emaciated and trembling with fear. Doors were smashed and the entire house was in a state of disrepair, and I didn't feel safe walking its halls anymore._

_Ivan's room was one of the worst places of the mansion: his sunflower blanket was torn to shreds, to say nothing of the bed that had been splintered and broken in several places. His dresser had been thrown across the room and had ostensible teeth marks; I didn't dare to examine them closer. Few things were intact, not even the ceramic vase that read "Anechka: My Little Sunflower" in English and Russian. It was shattered into a million pieces and kept in a small box that had two words written on it in black marker. "Мое сердце." In English it meant "My Heart."_

_The greenhouse had suffered as well. Though the glass walls had no damage done to them, every sunflower had been uprooted and lay wilted, dead, and rotten in the middle of the structure. When I saw this, I'd run to Ivan, sobbing into his chest and blubbering about the sunflowers. He had held me close, stroking my hair and murmuring about planting new sunflowers, twice as many as before. His voice soothed me to sleep, and I drifted into unconsciousness by the sound of him whispering something to me in Russian, something I'd heard my mother say so many times: "Я люблю тебя. I love you."_

Oh, d-did I zone out? It seemed so. Ivan was approaching me, asking if I was all right. He put a hand on my shoulder and I jolted, dropping the watering can. "I'm fine!" I blurted out before he could ask. "I'm perfectly all right, just spaced out, heh..." I picked up the can and frowned at the sunflowers that I had overwatered, letting out an exasperated sigh.

"It's all right, Anechka," Ivan said lightly. "We'll just not water them for a few days. Now let's get inside. I'll even cook breakfast this morning!"

Did he even know how to cook? I shrugged it off and nodded. "Okay then. What are you going to make?"

"It's a surprise!" he exclaimed jubilantly, throwing his arms up into the air. "Just wait; you'll see soon enough." With that, he ran out of the greenhouse, motioning for me to follow. I ran out after him without a moment's hesitation.

)*(*)*(

**2 years ago...**

It was light outside, and the fire was gone. But so was Anechka, who was nowhere to be found. And he daren't say the burnt mass in his shared room was Irena's, it just wasn't possible. The smell of smoke lingered, filling his nostrils and the tears rolling down his cheeks created small streaks through the soot that covered every inch of him. His bones and muscles hurt from being cramped up in the tiny, unused refrigerator for hours to protect himself from the fire that had claimed his world.

In the corner of the kitchen, in the burnt shell of the home that he'd shared with his two sisters until only a couple hours ago, sat a boy of only eleven, not bothering to keep his cries quiet. There was nobody left; he was the only one.

His name was Dmitry Volkov.

)*(*)*(

I'm baaaack! This won the most votes on the poll on my page, so I had to write it. I was originally going to publish it on the 14th of March as a 1-year anniversary present, but... Well, I couldn't. I've been busy with doing nothing._ Nothing at all_. To be completely honest, the only reason I haven't posted anything in so long is because I can't get myself up to the task. In addition, I lost my fire for a while. Seriously, I stopped writing entirely aside from stuff for school. And now I feel invigorated and ready to write... badly. I'm out of practice, that's why this is so terrible. But I promise to do my best to make this story memorable for you guys, because you ROCK! I'm going to work hard for you, so read it!

Translations:

Dobroe utro — Good morning

мой маленький подсолнечник — my little sunflower

да — yes

Я люблю тебя — I love you

Read this and its prequel, "Privyet, Russia!" as many times as you wish! Draw fanart, leave reviews, tell everyone you know! Or just read this once and forget about it until I upload something else. You're the fans, do whatever you please. But whatever you do, please check back often, fave, and put this in your alerts. I mean it, go do that RIGHT NOW! Until next time, be good and read!


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